


olive branches

by isawet



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Pre-ship, Squad, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 01:06:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isawet/pseuds/isawet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of snapshots, loosely linked, examining the relationships between Olivia and her squad starting in season 15. Focuses mainly on Olivia & Barba (friendship and/or pre-ship) and Olivia & Nick (friendship).</p>
            </blockquote>





	olive branches

**Author's Note:**

> I love this show man. And I have so many things to do but instead I wrote 10k of nothing that even hooks neatly together.
> 
> Not canon compliant, plays with the timeline. General spoilers here and there, nothing specific.

It’s been weeks and Olivia is only fractionally less hostile than she was. Always professional, always focused, but continually wearing an expression of faint annoyance at the sight of him when no victims or suspects are around, especially when he lags behind her for a step, fumbling through getting used to the new unit, new procedures. He fucks up a form for Barba, doesn’t dot the _i_ ’s properly and Barba glares, bitching about setting back court dates because detectives. 

“When I was UC it didn’t matter how many carbon copies we filled out separately,” Nick snaps back, frustrated with himself, defensive.

“Well I’d like to make my convictions stick, _Detective_ and if all you want to do is take criminals on a brief tour of central booking then maybe you should re-enlist with the cowboys.”

“Counselor,” Cragen snaps, warning Barba off ripping on his detectives. “A word? Amaro, redo the paperwork. Liv, refresh his memory.”

Nick winces. “Not necessary, Captain.”

“I have three open rapes and the groper of Ashland Park,” Olivia protests, holding up several thick files stacked together. 

“And if either of you ever sit at my desk, you can handle your own delegation,” Cragen says, and closes the door as Barba goes through, jaw set. The blinds snap shut.

Olivia looks at him from behind her desk. She clicks the pen in her hand. Her eyes narrow. “I’ll get us some coffee,” Nick says weakly. He steps into an interview room, the one set up for gentle questioning, and snags a few paper cups from the counter.

“Here,” Amanda comes in behind him, shaking her own empty cup. “Fill me up?”

“Sure.” Nick sloshes coffee into one after the other. Shakes a packet of sugar in two fingers and thumps the pot back down on the warming coil. He sighs.

“Liv takes a while to warm up to you,” Amanda says simply. “Was the same with me. I think her former partner left her rough.”

“I’ve heard the stories.” Nick sips his coffee and looks at the cup he’d poured for Olivia. He doesn’t know how she likes it. They look through the window. Fin says something, the words blurred but his tone faintly caustic, faintly teasing. Olivia ducks her head and throws her pen at him, but a smile twitches at her lips. Munch waves his hands around and Fin and Olivia roll their eyes in unison. Nick feels a pang. Something he’d missed undercover, something he’d hoped to find in his new assignment. Work that matters, squad that gels, partner that has his back.

“In action, though,” Amanda murmurs, sipping her own cup and grimacing at the harsh sludge of station house coffee. Olivia with suspects, unforgiving and intuitive; Olivia with victims, soft understanding. She may be all jagged edges but they’re never pointed at anyone who doesn’t deserve them.

“Yeah,” Nick sighs. Amanda grins at him. 

“Fin and I get on great, by the way,” she tells him. “I’m watching the game at his place this Sunday.”

“Fuck off,” Nick says, and grins sideways at her. He leaves the room, and not even seeing the warmth slip from Olivia’s expression as she looks at him is enough to knock all the good feeling out of his chest.

//

There’s a little boy with a bootprint bruise on his cheek, blooming blue and purple. He flinches from Olivia and colors flowers with green and yellow petals. The he takes Nick’s black ballpoint and scratches them out one by one, leaning on it until the tip tears through the paper. Nick finds the plastic bin of action figures and does the funny voices his daughter likes. The boy is smiling when the window rattles with two sharp raps. 

“I got a rapport goin’ with him,” Nick complains as he exits the room.

“No need,” Barba says crisply, not looking up from his phone. “DNA confirms, and the bruises will make any defender drop to their knees for a deal.”

Olivia quirks an eyebrow. “You paint pictures with words, Counselor.”

“I try.” Barba clicks his briefcase closed and leaves, swaggering with impending victory.

“Fin and Rollins went to pick up the math tutor,” Olivia says, starting to collect pictures from the cork case board.

“I’m going back,” Nick says, still feeling restless with inaction. “Wait with him until his parents get here.”

“You should,” Olivia agrees without looking up, “you’re good with him. You do that lizard voice with your daughter?”

“Yeah.” Nick waits for a moment, a hint of familiarity opening up between them. He takes a chance. “With the ladies sometimes too.”

Olivia grins, and Nick smiles back. “You dog.”

//

Barba gets up at one, giving up on the pretense of getting some sleep. He showers for longer than he usually allows and dresses methodically, does his hair, knots his tie. He stops at a corner store and buys a bottle of cheap scotch, hides it under his jacket until he reaches his office. The light is on. He opens the door, cautious. Amaro is standing at Barba’s desk, rumpled. He looks like he hasn’t slept in three days, is biting his knuckle.

“ _No te vayas, espera café_ , Detective. Would you care for a cup?”

Amaro exhales in a light snort. He recognizes the hint, the dig. “I know the guard on duty,” he explains, easing into a chair. “He let me in.”

Barba goes to the coffee maker, cleaned out and replenished with fresh water, courtesy of his secretary. He finds a filter, fills it with twice the recommended amount of beans, flicks the switch on. “And you decided to… wait for me?”

“I was going to look through your files,” Amaro admits, candid. The honesty makes Barba pause. He waves a hand to his filing cabinets. “Not those,” Amaro says. “You know the ones I mean.” Liv’s files. Lewis’. “They’re not confidential,” Amaro tries, “I would have heard it at the trial--”

“The trial,” Barba says, voice rising, “where you will be testifying not only as a detective, but as a character witness? Where defense could claim that you reading the files taints your testimony?”

Amaro rises to his feet. “A character witness? What kind of bullshit--”

“Defense is going to contest that Olivia went with Lewis voluntarily, that she was obsessed with him, they had a relationship, that--” Amaro picks up the chair and smashes it against the wall. He flexes his fists; his jaw twitches. “Impressive,” Barba notes. “That was heavy. And expensive.”

Amaro turns away. “She won’t talk to me.” He falls into the other chair and rubs his mouth with his hand. “Won’t talk to Cassidy.” He waves his hand in the air and lets it fall again, limp. “Won’t talk to anyone.”

“Ah. So you thought, naturally, to break into my office and read police and medical reports of her--” his voice catches, very slightly-- “ordeal.”

Amaro swallows. “I know there’s time before the trial, even with the fast tracking, but…” he trails off. “I know my weaknesses, okay? I’m hot headed and I go after suspects too hard. I want time. And information.”

“I can help you prep for trial,” Barba says, “but you can’t look at the reports. Like you said, it’ll be made public record at the trial.”

“Yeah,” Amaro says. He stares at the wall. There’s a bruised look about his eyes. When he exhales, leaning his head between his legs and rubs at the back of his neck, Barba can see there’s blood around on his cuffs, under his nails. 

Olivia’s blood on his skin. Barba walks back to the coffee machine to give himself something to do. He dumps sugar into a paper cup, three times as much as he usually takes, and adds powdered creamer. There’s only a few cups worth in the pot, but he turns the switch off and pours a cup. He makes another cup, black, and puts it on the desk in front of Amaro. “Liv’s being released tomorrow?”

“Day after,” Amaro says, his head still down. 

“Mm.” Barba sits at his desk, sipping his own coffee. “So that makes it, what? Five, six days you’ve been awake? Smells like eight.”

“You don’t get it.” Amaro sits up and drains the coffee in one go. “You’re not a cop. She’s my partner. It’s on me.”

“Not just you.” Barba leans back. “I let him walk.”

“Not your fault,” Amaro says tiredly. He scrubs his hand across his face.

“There’s enough blame to go around,” Barba says. “Go home, detective. Shower. Eat. Sleep.” He pulls the files from his briefcase. “Spring Liv from the hospital and repeat.”

“Yeah.” Amaro stands, almost tottering.

“Take a cab,” Barba adds. Amaro tries to throw the cup in the trash, misses. He leaves it on the floor. When he’s almost through the door Barba calls him back. “Amaro. Rape kit was negative. No vaginal trauma, no--no anal tearing.”

“Yeah,” Amaro says, leaning a fist on the door. He punches it, once, rattling the hinges. “Yeah.”

 

//

Nick’s hair is still wet from dunking his head in the precinct’s sink when he presses the button for the elevator in the hospital lobby. He was ordered him to take some time, wash his hair--no one said he had to go home and shower. He rounds the corner and sees the chair sitting outside her room, sans the uniform assigned to guard it. A man in jeans and a ballcap is slipping in.

Nick breaks into a sprint, his coffee cup spilling from his hands, and careens around the doorframe. He hits the man in the back and slings him around to throw him into the wall, Olivia’s chart clattering to the floor.

“Easy,” the man says, “Look.” There’s a picture in his outstretched fingers. Nick’s heart thumps like a stampede in his chest, his breathing harsher than it should be after a fifteen foot sprint. He looks at the picture. It’s… Olivia. Close cropped hair, a decade younger. And the man he’s pinning to a wall. They’re leaning against a wall, grinning, badges glinting on their belts. There’s glare coming into the left side of the frame, colored like squad car lights. 

“Detective?” The uniform is standing in the doorway, shocked nurses peering over his shoulder. His weapon is drawn but pointed at the floor. 

Nick forces the frog out of his throat. “Misunderstanding.” He waits until the officer has secured his weapon before getting in his face. “Is there a reason,” he snarls, “you left your post?”

“I--” The office stutters, flushing.

“Get your ass in that chair,” Nick says, seething and letting it show, “and don’t lift it until your relief comes, I don’t care if you have to piss down your pant leg.”

The officer flees. Nick shuts the door in the gawkers’ faces and turns around. “Stabler.”

Stabler pushes his cap farther back on his head, revealing his face. He’s moved to the bed while Nick’s back was turned. “Guilty.” In the bed, Olivia breathes softly, sedated. The blood’s been cleaned off her face, and her eye is starting to purple. The hospital gown has ridden down, and the burn marks are clearly visible, scarred over. Stabler reaches out and pulls it back up. He brushes the hair out of her eyes.

Nick tensed when he reached and vibrates with every second Stabler doesn’t move away. “You picked a hell of a time to show your face.”

Stabler’s face does something complicated. “Don’t talk about something you don’t understand.”

Nick really doesn’t care about whatever decade long drama mystery surrounds the once legendary duo. “Just--step away, alright?” His fingers creak in pain, and he realizes suddenly that they’re clenched around the butt of his gun. 

Stabler glances at his hand but doesn’t move. “Easy,” he says, but doesn’t move. “I’m a friend.” There’s a split hesitation just before he says friend, and Nick doesn’t know what it means but he hasn’t slept for days and when he stares at a blank wall for too long he thinks about standing outside the ambulance when Benson told the EMTs to radio ahead, tell the hospital to prep for a rape kit, her face when she said Lewis lunged at her.

Nick feels his face twist in a cutting smile. “A friend? Where were you when she needed you? After twelve years?” His voice rises the longer he talks.

Stabler clenches his jaw. “Where was I? Where were _you_? He already got away once, your _partner_ and you dropped the ball--”

Nick drops his shoulder and charges. They slam into the wall, brawling.

“ _What the hell is going on here?!_ ,” Cragen bellows from the door. It’s a Captain’s order, commanding, and Nick responds before his brain can catch up, disengaging and stepping back.

“Captain,” Stabler says, wiping at his split lip. Nick can feel wetness trickling along his hairline where Stabler’s watch caught him. “You any closer to retirement?”

“Elliot,” the Captain says, “a word?” He stands aside, and after a long pause Elliot stalks past him. “Clean yourself up,” Cragen tells Nick. “She doesn’t need this.” A doctor appears past Cragen, with two security guards, and Cragen nods at Nick, faint. He’ll take care of this. He shuts the door.

Nick rubs his fingers across his forehead and they come away bloody. The red smear turns his stomach, the first time the sight of blood has blanched him since he was a rookie. He wipes his face in the elbow of his shirt and picks up a chair they must have knocked over in the scuffle, rights it against the wall. He pauses, then drags it just in front of the foot of her bed, facing the door. One leg is dented, and it wobbles when he sinks into it. His back makes a weak protest and he takes a deep breath, one hand resting on Olivia’s ankle. He moves his thumb until he can feel her pulse beat in his fingertip.

//

“Nick.” Amanda shakes him lightly. “Easy.” He rubs his eyes, feeling gritty and strung out. His head pounds dully. “What the hell happened to you?” She flicks a flake of dried blood off his cheek and raises an eyebrow.

“Nothin’,” he says, straightening with a wince. “The doctor come through already?”

“Yeah,” Fin says, leaned up against the wall, “could barely hear her over your snoring.”

Amanda rolls her eyes. “Olivia will be coming out of it soon, to be released--well ideally tomorrow, but you know how Liv can be.”

“I’ll get a wheelchair,” Nick says standing with a wobble. Amanda steadies him with a hand on the shoulder.

“Woah. I’ll get it. You--take a breath. And wash your face.”

“Amaro.” Fin is standing by Olivia’s bedside. “I know you’re her partner but I’d like to--” he makes a vague gesture. There’s history there, Nick knows, although they rarely discuss it. Some rocky, he thinks, but history is history. Squad is squad.

“You’re the wheelman,” Nick relents. He goes to find a cloth for his face.

//

Olivia bangs a closed fist on the door. There’s a thump from within, and the door opens. “Detective. Always a pleasure.”

Barba’s in sweatpants. His hair is everywhere. Olivia enjoys it for a second. “Looking sharp, Counselor.” Barba does a poor job of not looking at her bruises, her arm in the sling.

“You’re interrupting my scheduled coma,” he says finally, waspish. “You know how it feels to work for fifty six hours?”

“I have an idea,” Olivia says dryly.

Barba stops. “That was insensitive. Take it as evidence of my exhaustion.” He opens the door. “Please.”

Olivia shakes her head. “I don’t mean to interrupt your rest. I just wanted to give you these.” She offers an accordion folder. “It’s… everything. Let me know if you need clarification.”

She offers it to him and he takes it, automatic. “Wait,” he says as she turns to leave. He struggles for words. “I was reading over the files, the court transcripts. I thought maybe there was something, some clue.” He drags a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Ridiculous notion. What could be there that your colleagues would miss?”

Olivia quirks a smile at him. “I appreciate it.”

Barba looks down at the file in his hand, the account in Olivia’s own hand. “Yeah. See you at the office?”

Olivia’s smile turns grimly determined. “Count on it.”

//

Barba raps his knuckles on the open door. Olivia looks up from the table and her paperwork, smiles. “I considered flowers,” Barba says, stepping in and closing the door. “But I decided the conviction would suffice.” He offers her a coffee, the fancy kind she pretends not to like better than the cheap one she usually buys. 

“A girl’s best friend,” Olivia agrees, taking it. She sips it and quirks an eyebrow. 

“I am a trained prosecutor,” Barba tells her. He sits. “I never welcomed you back. Not officially.”

Olivia ducks her head. “Rollins is gonna make me cupcakes.”

“I’m not much of a baker.”

“I don’t think she is either.” Olivia waits him out for a moment, and then another.

Barba shifts in his chair. “Are you sweating me, Sergeant?”

“Not at all, Counselor. And I’m not a Sergeant.”

“Not yet,” Barba grins, “a matter of time, I’m sure.”

Olivia searches his face. “Something you’d like to share?”

“It’s--” Barba stops, takes a breath, starts again. “An apology. I wanted to apologize.”

Olivia waves a hand. “We argue. Tempers are high at this job. Don’t worry about it.”

“No. Not that.” Barba fidgets. “Lewis walked. I feel…” Olivia moves like she means to interrupt, and he raises a hand to stop her. “Let me finish. I feel responsible. Maybe it means nothing, but I do.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Olivia.”

Olivia looks down. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

Barba shrugs. “And yet I am. Nothing to be done about it, except--” He leans in, catches Olivia’s gaze. “I’ll get him this time, Liv. He will _die_ in prison.”

“And we need to start prepping for trial?” Olivia’s too smart to miss subtle hints. Barba nods.

“No rush. I’d like to start slow, considering.”

Olivia tilts her head. “Considering what? My trauma?”

“Yes.” His honesty takes her by surprise, shocks the bravado out of her. And then she nods, barely a movement. Barba nods back.

“More coffee wouldn’t hurt.” Olivia takes another sip, sighing.

“Maybe food,” Barba says idly, relaxing now the hard bit’s over.

Olivia narrows her eyes. “Amaro drop a dime?”

“Fin,” Barba corrects. “So you know how serious I’m taking it. You’re my witness now, Benson. Eat regularly. See your therapist. Drink my salary away on steamed milk and sugar.”

Olivia takes a long drink. “If you insist.”

//

“And what did your Captain say to you, after the conclusion of the trial?”

Olivia shifts. “To go home. Take two days off.”

“Because you were harboring a grudge? A vendetta, against Mr. Lewis?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“We believed he was guilty. It’s hard when the conviction doesn’t come.”

“So you went home?”

“Yes.”

“What happened when you entered your apartment?” Barba waits, turned towards the empty jury seats. “Sergeant?”

“I--” Olivia says, “I entered my apartment, closed the door.”

Another long pause. “And then what happened,” Barba prods.

“I--” Olivia stops again. She puts her hand to her chest. “I--I can’t breathe.” Her breath comes in great sucking gasps, wheezing.

“Liv!” Barba grabs her by the shoulder and drags her out of the witness chair. He eases her down to the floor, slumped back into his chest. “Take short breaths. It’s okay.” He grabs her hand in his. “Squeeze my hand and release, one after the other.” Her hand spasms around his, weak, and then a little stronger. “That’s good. Keep doing that.” He hesitates, then puts a palm on her sternum. She flinches and he withdraws immediately. “Sorry, sorry. Feel me breathe? Match yours to mine. Keep squeezing my hand.”

Two minutes later she sits up, pushes him away. “I’m fine. It’s… I knew to expect it.”

Now that she’s breathing normally Barba can feel his own pulse pound. “You could have shared with the class. I thought…”

Olivia stands, pale and drawn and refusing his help. “It wasn’t so bad this time.”

Barba catches the slip. “This time?”

Olivia turns away. “Outside the scope, Counselor.”

“It’s not, but I’ll let it go.” Barba stands. “This time. Coffee break?”

“No.” Olivia steps back up to the witness seat. “I can do this.”

Barba leans on the wooden frame of the box. Olivia flinches back and doesn’t seem to realize it. Barba takes a step back, leaves his hand on the mic stand. “No one doubts your resolve. Or your resiliency. It’s not a weakness to need a break. We anticipated this, remember? Start small.”

“I don’t need a break,” Olivia says, cold. “Let’s start again.”

“Okay.” Barba raps his knuckles on the wood once and turns back to the gallery. “Okay. What happened after the conclusion of the trial?”

Olivia takes a shaky breath. “My Captain ordered me to take two days off.”

//

“I can’t charge a mother for insisting on healthy food,” Barba’s voice rises sharply, his hands flung out in exasperation. “What am I supposed to present as evidence? Broccoli? Expert child witnesses testifying against lima beans?”

“Fuck off Barba,” Nick snaps, “this isn’t healthy eating, it’s neglect.”

Rage makes Barba’s face go very still. “ _Mantén tu latón con tapa,_ detective.” Nick’s fist clenches and he steps around the desk, clearing the space between them. Olivia’s hand lands on his wrist, stilling him.

Amanda moves very slightly between them. “Counselor you didn’t see that fridge, those kids. They’re starving.”

Barba takes a sharp breath. “Do not come to me with neglect cases where your only evidence is an empty fridge.”

“The law defines neglect--” Carisi tries. 

Barba makes a sharp gesture. “Do not _start_ with me. If you quote juris doctor for idiots to me right now…”

“Let’s go see it,” Olivia says from where she’s been uncharacteristically sitting back.

Barba redirects his glare. “Oh? Finally decided to join the conversation?”

Olivia shrugs. “They were doing okay on their own. I haven’t seen the apartment, neither have you, it’s still technically within our purview to look at and the kids are with protective services, the mother with her sister--it’s empty. Let’s take a look.”

Barba frowns. “And you’ll abide by my decision?”

“No less so than usual,” Olivia agrees. She tosses him her keys. “You can even drive.”

“I’m coming too,” Nick says quickly. Amanda echoes him nearly simultaneously. 

Barba looks like his headache has reached maximum warp. “Sure,” he snaps caustically, “should we call Detective Fin in from his son’s wedding planning, make it a party?”

“Carisi will hold down the fort,” Olivia says, and then before his face can fall, “I’m counting on you.”

“I won’t let you down Sarge,” Carisi swears, tiny hearts of devotion leaking from his eyes. Nick sees Amanda turn to hide a smile.

“Two cars,” Barba insists, and stalks out of the room.

Amanda looks at Olivia. “You okay riding with Oscar?”

Olivia snorts. “The Grouch and I will do just fine.” 

//

The apartment is just as Nick remembers it from four days ago. A little on the dirty side, but not terrible for the city. It just looks too--scraped. Like someone went through and took away anything that could give the space warmth of comfort. “No pictures on the walls,” Amanda notes as they follow Olivia and Barba in. Nick shuts the door softly behind them and flicks on the dingy lights. “No artwork, no….” She trails off, unable to articulate it.

What there is are crosses, nailed roughly to the doorframes and the wall, maybe fifty in total. “But how will her visitors know she’s a Christian?” Barba notes dryly. 

“I see what you mean,” Olivia tells Nick, frowning at the sofa. All the cushions have been removed, springs jutting up oddly.

“I’m not seeing anything needing to take up taxpayer dollars,” Barba says stubbornly, then looks away from the crosses and catches sight of the couch. “A little Lutheran,” he allows.

Amanda pulls open the fridge, then the cabinets. Nothing, nothing, one box of prepackaged oatmeal. She turns to show it hasn’t been opened. “Both the middle and the eldest son’s teachers are willing and eager to testify.”

“Disaster,” Barba says immediately, “they would have to say that there was free lunch available and neither child accepted it.”

“They were afraid,” Amanda protests, “they were terrified of their mom finding out.”

“We had a case like this once,” Olivia says, looking distant. “Mom obsessed about food.”

Barba tilts his head at her. “How’d it end?”

Olivia’s face closes. “Badly.”

Nick draws even with her, and then deliberately steps to the side, drawing attention away. “We ran mom’s credit card receipts, and she makes charges at the grocery store around the corner almost every day. Low amounts, but still. I guess she’s eating.”

Olivia frowns, suddenly refocused. “Everyday? Are the charges always in the evening?” 

“Ah,” Barba says when Nick nods, “that I can use.”

Amanda blinks. “What can you use?”

Barba smirks. He looks at Olivia. “Behind the fridge or under the bed?”

“Hall closet,” Olivia says. Barba nods and goes for the single closet in the entryway. Nick trails him.

“Am I missing something?”

“Perpetually,” Barba says and pulls the door open with a flourish. “Ah.” He reaches inside and pulls the ironing board out. Nick leans around it and--

“Christ.” Enough cheap liquor to knock him out three times over.

“Not so devout,” Barba says. “Pick up the mother.” Nick looks back--Olivia nods. He and Amanda leave, grinning. A win.

Barba hums, his mood improving exponentially by the second. He spins the car keys around an index finger. “Cute trick. Kids would never touch laundry voluntarily.”

“Either this or in with the towels,” Olivia muses lightly, coming to stand at his shoulder. They listen to Amanda and Nick bang down the stairs, eager for a collar. “There’s an aunt waiting in the wings, seems like a good fit.”

“A happy ending,” Barba agrees. He turns to her, grinning. “You got a drunk _tio_ that stashes liquor all up at his apartment?”

Olivia’s smile vanishes. “Something like that,” she says tightly. “Let’s go.”

Barba hesitates, thrown. “Liv--”

“Lunch?” Olivia interrupts, turning. “My treat?” An olive branch and a warning all at once.

Barba searches her face for a second, but it’s oddly blank, shuttered. “Street meat with New York’s finest?” He says finally, lightly. Olivia’s lips quirk. “What could be better?” When they leave he has her walk in front of him, his hand brushing the small of her back.

//

“Try to wear something a little less…” Barba looks Fin up and down. “You.”

Fin grins, in a good mood after a good collar. “Sorry Counselor, you can take the man off the street but…”

Amanda rolls her eyes. “He’s got a court suit.”

Fin runs his hands down the collar of his leather jacket, still grinning. “It’s my wedding suit.”

“May its luck have changed,” Barba says dryly, and frowns at Olivia’s office, the door shut. “Our Sergeant on a call?”

“At a bodega snatch and grab,” Fin says, “twelve year old. Maybe kidnap, maybe runaway.”

“No,” Amanda says, surprised, “Carisi and Amaro are there. Liv took a day.”

Fin’s grin slips away. “A personal day? Olivia?”

Barba hesitates. “I’ll check on her.” He raises a file folder in faint justification. “We need to talk about the Roberts case anyway. Defense brought in Exley again.”

Amanda mimes throwing salt over one shoulder. They watch Barba leave, tapping the file on his empty hand. She looks at Fin. “ _Our_ Sergeant?”

Fin shrugs. He starts pecking away at his keyboard, using only four fingers. It drives Amanda crazy. “Better him than Haden.”

//

Barba slips into Olivia’s building on the heels of a couple, all sunny smiles. Their baby stares at Barba in the elevator. He shoots Olivia a text to avoid its scrunchy eyes. 

“He likes you,” the mother says, bubbly in the way all doting mothers are with cute compliant babies. 

“He’s a charmer,” the father adds, bursting pride.

Olivia doesn’t respond. Barba smiles, polite. They look at him expectantly. The baby gurgles and reaches out a chubby hand. Before he has too much time to think about it, Barba reciprocates. The baby latches tiny fingers around his index finger and burbles.

Barba remembers two months ago, a man walked out of a nursery with a six month old; they found the body two weeks later, with ejaculate present. He’d had the jury as soon as he’d shown the crime scene photos. Amaro had bruises on his knuckles by the court date, Olivia had quietly maneuvered him out of testifying. His stomach rolls. “A good grip,” he tells the parents, swallowing. The elevator dings, the doors open. “Excuse me.”

He shakes old cases out of his head and finds Olivia’s door. He raps his knuckles against it, waits for a moment. Nothing. He knocks again, more insistently. Maybe she’s out, enjoying the brisk wind.

“Yeah,” Olivia’s voice echoes faintly, resigned. “Hold on.” The door swings open. She’s in grey sweats, baggy and hanging loose on her. Barba thinks maybe she’s lost a little weight, but it’s hard to tell. Her t-shirt declares her property of the New York City Fire Department. 

Barba gestures at it. “Inter-Departmental peace gesture?”

Olivia looks down, blinking rapidly. “A joke. What can I do for you, Counselor?” She looks him in the face, finally, and Barba searches her expression. Her eyes are a little distant, a little unfocused. 

Barba weighs choices. Then he sighs and steps towards her. Instinctively she draws back, giving him space even though he’s seen her stand rooted against murders, rapists, gangbangers. There’s a bottle of whiskey on her counter, a pretty big dent taken out of it. “Little early in the day, don’t you think Sergeant?” He stands in her kitchen, leaning back against the fridge. His arm brushes a drawing, tacked up with scotch tape--no magnets. _tank you detective oliev_ it says in crayon.

Olivia lets her eyes roll upwards. She leans against the counter, facing him, and takes an easy swig from the bottle. Barba recognizes the label--cheap stuff. “It’s my day off Barba. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Barba lets his gaze take in the rest of her apartment. Clean, comfortable. Warm. Olivia plays a hard cop but Barba’s always had her figured for a classy lady. She also likes the same wine his mother does, although he tends to shy away from looking too closely at that line of thinking. “I didn’t peg you for a Johnnie Walker fan.”

Olivia takes a longer pull, her throat working. Barba re-evaluates how intoxicated she must be. “I wasn’t.” She pulls the fridge open and finds a takeout box. Chinese. Barba sees the rest of the fridge--there’s orange juice in the door, something that looks sad and wilted in a drawer. “My mother was,” Olivia says. She sniffs the container and grimaces, kicks the door shut and tosses the container into the trash. She takes another drink.

“Easy,” Barba says before he can stop himself. “Don’t you think you should slow it down some?”

Olivia finds a glass, her movements loose, clumsy. She bangs it on the counter too hard and fumbles when she pours him a drink, slopping amber liquid over the side and onto her hand, the counter. She licks it off her skin and offers him the glass. “I can take it.” Her eyes challenge him: _I can take it, can you?_.

Barba shrugs his coat off and thumps his briefcase on the floor, tosses his coat over the counter. He downs the drink in one swallow and catches the bottle out of her grasp with two fingers. He sits at the table and gestures at the other chair. “Sit. Drink.” He pours one finger’s worth into the glass and slides it across the table. “Smile.”

Olivia folds into the chair, her bravado fading. “I’m just,” she pauses to drink, “taking a day. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Taking a day is good,” Barba says cautiously, pouring himself a drink. “Making a habit…” he trails off. His teeth clink the glass when he sips.

Olivia folds her legs up on her chair and rests her cheek on her knee. She looks more tired than anything, circles under her eyes. “Sustained, Counselor,” she agrees. “Do you have something else to do today, or will you be finishing the bottle with me?” She smiles, fire sparking in her eyes.

Barba stands and goes the cabinet, finds another glass, pours them both another drink. He goes to the table and puts the glass in front of her. “Objection; leading the witness.” Olivia reaches for the glass and he catches her by the wrist. “Liv. If you need…” he struggles, inarticulation an alien feeling.

Olivia smiles a funny little grin he doesn’t understand. “C’mon Barba. Sit. Drink.” She downs her glass and snags the bottle out of his hand. “Smile. Tomorrow’s another day.”

Barba thinks about the cases in his briefcase. Three rapes, one of a nine year old girl. He takes a deep breath. “Tomorrow’s another day,” he says quietly, and takes long swallows.

 

//

Barba walks into a squad room pointed at Olivia’s closed door, Fin like a thundercloud and the rest like hounds sighting pheasants. “Something I should know about?”

Fin’s glare intensifies. “Old ghosts paying visits.”

Shouting erupts from within the office, a male voice, low and angry, and then Olivia’s: sharp, furious. A slam echoes from within and Amaro rises, Carisi and Amanda a second behind. Barba points. “Should someone… do something?”

Fin spins in his chair, back to his computer, dismissive. “They used to do this all the time. At least now it’s in a room with the door shut.”

“I’m going in,” Carisi announces.

Amanda rolls her eyes. “Take it easy, newbie. Liv can handle herself.”

“That’s my Sergeant,” Carisi protests, “nobody oughtta talk to her like that.” He pauses, conciliatory. “Except you, Counselor.” Fin grins.

“I’ll keep it in mind when I don’t write you a recommendation,” Barba snaps. Something glass hits the wall and shatters. Barba notices that all of the uniforms and other detectives that usually share the floor have made themselves scarce. “Tell me that’s not a victim’s relative I’m going to have to press charges against.” More shouting, definitely Olivia. “Or on behalf of.”

Amaro drops his pen and stands. “Old partner. Twelve years and an ugly split. I’m going in.”

“Boys,” Amanda drawls, “always trying to rush to the rescue.”

“Partner’s prerogative,” Nick shoots back. “And I’m tired of lookin’ at these forms.”

“I’ll… come back.” Barba sets a cup of coffee at Amanda’s elbow. “For Liv.”

Amanda sniffs. “Nothing fancy for the rest of us, Counselor?”

“I feel neglected,” Fin says.

//

Barba goes for a nightcap, classy place that stays quiet after hours. Still halfway into his first scotch, the bartender clunks down another. “Just the one,” Barba says.

“This one’s for me.” Olivia slides onto the stool beside him, curls her fingers around the glass. “Heard you came by earlier. Something important?”

“Not so important you had to track me down after hours.”

“Hey now Counselor,” Olivia teases, “you know there’s nobody more important than you.”

“Mm,” Barba says, sipping. “Nothing that can’t wait. You get the coffee?”

“Carisi,” Olivia says darkly. Barba grins.

“Going to tell me to take it easy on him again?”

“No,” Olivia says, cheerful, “I think I’ll just make him lead on a few cases. Time to get his feet wet. And you know how eager he is to be working closely with you: prepping witnesses, reviewing reports.”

Barba grimaces. “Touche.” He looks at her. Tired, but that’s normal. Biting her lip, a tell he’s only seen a few times, in the early days. “Tough day at the office?”

“Old ghosts,” she murmurs, an unknowing echo. The cheer drains from her as quickly as it had come.

Barba presses. “A Johnnie Walker day?”

“Not that bad.” Olivia plays with the glass, a million miles away, then drains it. “Drinking alone for a reason?”

Barba gestures at the bartender for another round. “Nothing purposeful. Buy you a drink?”

Olivia raises two fingers at the bartender. “If you insist.”

//

“That’s bullshit,” Olivia says as soon as Barba’s cleared the room, fired up, eyes flashing, “if you don’t have the balls to prosecute don’t lie to yourself. And don’t blame it on me.”

“You know,” Barba fires back, “I am the D.A. here. The lawyer. Fifteen years and you couldn’t tell this case was shaky?”

Olivia spreads her hands. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were the type.”

Barba slams his briefcase down. “The type?”

“Kevlar prosecutor,” Olivia says, cutting. “Won’t press unless they’re sure it won’t damage their win loss percentage.”

“Damage my record?” Barba laughs mirthlessly. “This will decimate not only my office in the public view, but yours too. I have to go back in there in an hour with no witnesses, and the only evidence of any weight was fruit of _your_ illegal search.”

“We’ll get the girl back. She spooked, that’s all. Rollins and Carisi are running her down.”

Barba snorts. “Excellent. Well as long as Fin and Amaro are on schedule with completion of _their time machine_ , I’ll be able to salvage enough leverage to plead him down to unlawful imprisonment.” His cellphone cuts off Olivia’s enraged response. “Barba.” 

He turns to Olivia. “It’s my mother.” She raises a hand, argument paused, and turns to gather her composure. “Mama, _estoy pinchado_ , it’s not a good--” Gunshots startle him into silence. “I’ll call you back.” He hangs up and two more boom out--close. Olivia puts her hand on his back and shoves him under the table.

“Stay down.” She draws her weapon and goes to the window in the door, opaque frosted glass. She presses her ear against it, her gun pointed at the ground, her other hand outstretched to keep him put. There’s scattered screaming, shouting. “Lock the door after me,” she orders, slipping a finger into the guard and resting it lightly on the trigger. The lights go out with a click, the room dimly lit by the window.

“Olivia--”

“This is my job,” she interrupts. “Lock the door behind me, push the table against it, get behind the filing cabinets, and wait for the police.” She pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “I promise not to search anyone without a warrant,” she says dryly, and then she’s through the door and away.

//

Barba exits the courthouse and shrugs his police escort off with a pointed barb. He grabs another passing uniform by the elbow. “A.D.A. Barba. Casualties?”

“Judge,” the officer says, “two court officers, one first responder, a detective. Third floor. It’s a madhouse.”

Third floor is where they were. Barba drags him back. “That’s all? You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure.” The officer tries to leave again and Barba gets ahold of him by the collar.

“Find me someone who's all the way sure.”

The officer yanks himself backwards. “Christ, okay. Lone shooter, grudge kill with an arsenal. Some Sergeant got him, took a hit in the process.”

Barba’s heart rate spikes. “Which Sergeant?” 

“Barba!” Olivia is coming down the steps. Her jacket’s gone, one sleeve rolled up and the other unbuttoned at the cuff. “I got this, officer.”

“Good luck,” the officer mutters, and leaves.

“You okay?” Olivia’s radio crackles, and she turns it down. “I went to get you but I see someone beat me to it.”

Barba is staring at her. Her blouse, blue, is stained dark along one side. Her hands are deep red, with flecks up her arms to the elbow. “ _Dios mio._ ”

“Barba?” Olivia guides him into a sit against a pillar. “Hey, take a breath.” She snaps her fingers at an EMT. “I need a blanket.” She leans him back and pats him down, searching. “Are you injured?”

“No,” Barba says. He feels shaky. “Adrenaline crash. It’s worse this time, I think because of the waiting.” Olivia grabs a shock blanket from the EMT and Barba sits up straight, slaps it away. “Don’t treat me like an idiot civilian. You’re hit?”

Olivia touches her side and winces slightly. “A graze.”

Barba stands, equilibrium shaky but reached. “Which judge?”

“Laurens,” Olivia says, steadying him. “One of the good guys.”

“Damn,” Barba murmurs. “The detective?”

“Don’t know,” Olivia says. “Didn’t recognize him. Was still alive when he went into the bus, but it doesn’t look good.” She takes a step and winces again. Barba zeroes in.

“Hospital.”

“I’ve still gotta give my statement. I ducked out to get you.”

“Found me. Let’s go.”

Olivia rolls her eyes. “Don’t mother, Barba.” On cue, Barba’s phone vibrates in his breast pocket.

“On the news already?” Barba asks. Olivia points at the cameras bobbing just beyond the perimeter. Barba clicks the call through the voicemail and fires off a text. He speaks without thinking. “Was your mother a worrywart?”

“Not so much,” Olivia says shortly, before he can take it back, “I gotta find IAB, turn in my weapon.”

“Of course,” Barba says. He grabs another passing uniform. “The Sergeant needs medical care. And her delegate.”

“Belay,” Olivia orders. The officer wavers, then flees, avoiding Barba’s gaze. Barba glares after him.

“Abuse of power,” he says.

“Stitches can wait,” Olivia says shortly, “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” Barba yanks his pocket square out and hands it to her. “Here.”

She looks at him, amused. “What am I supposed to do with this? Apply pressure?”

“You can give it to your lady admirers, for all I care,” Barba snaps, turning away.

Olivia catches his arm. “Woah. What’s the deal?”

“You went out,” he says. “There wasn’t a need.”

“I’m a cop,” Olivia says steadily.

“You went out,” Barba repeats, “the next thing I hear is that there was a bloodbath, and a Sergeant got hit.” He shakes his head. “And… the last thing we did was yell.”

“With you and me that’s not so bad,” Olivia says gently. “You’re okay, and I’m okay.”

“You need stitches,” Barba insists. He reaches out. Olivia has produced a bottle of water from somewhere, and she splashes the cloth with it. “That’s silk,” he tells her, and helps peel her shirt away to mop at the injury. 

“I’ll get you a new one,” Olivia says. As fast as she wipes, new blood seeps. It drips on his fingers, warmer than her skin. A streak six inches long, a graze. “No use,” she murmurs. “Stitches it is.”

Barba draws back, off balance. He tries for a smile. Just a few inches deeper and he’d be standing over a body bag. “What would I do without you sitting in the back of my courtroom, staring holes through my back?”

“You’d manage,” Olivia says.

“Liv!” Amaro breaks through the perimeter, taking the steps two at a time. He drags his eyes up and down Barba once, assessing, then dismisses him. He zeroes in on her injury. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“Sense strikes you at last, Detective.” Barba withdraws a few steps. “IAB will want a word.”

Amaro barely glances at him. “I already called for a delegate. We don’t want this being used against you,” he says before Olivia can argue. “Not with you up for the Lieutenant slot.”

“And you,” Olivia says, starting to look a little pale. “For Sergeant.”

Amaro blinks. “I thought--”

Olivia shrugs. “I’ve done worse, and now I’m up for Lieutenant. And I’ve still got strings. I got your back.”

Amaro’s eyes crinkle up at the corners. “Yeah you do.”

It feels like an intimate moment between partners, one they mightn’t have meant Barba to hear. “Hospital,” he reminds them. Amaro drags her away towards the nearest ambulance. 

Barba looks down. Olivia’s blood in the lines of his skin, cooling in the air. He grabs the water bottle Olivia had left behind and empties it, scrubbing against his pants. His hands are shaking.

//

“Barba,” Fin greets, surprised. “Something we should know about?”

“Nothing pressing. Amaro?” Amaro looks up, surprised. “You got an open room?”

“Conference one,” Amaro says. Barba makes a beeline. Amara walks backwards, shrugging at Fin’s questioning look. He shuts the door behind him. “What can I do you for?”

“It’s not official.”

Amaro raises an eyebrow. “A favor? From me to you?”

“It falls within our joint purview.” Barba paces a little. “Your Sergeant. She’s adjusting well? To being back?”

Amaro closes down. “She’s fine. You really gonna come at her like this?”

Barba makes a sharp gesture. “Settle yourself. Didn’t I say this was all off the record? I’m concerned.” He shifts. “As a friend.”

“She’s fine,” Amaro says stiffly. Barba can actually see the thin blue line falling around his profile. “Seeing her shrink, sticking to protocol. Focused.”

“The courthouse shooting. She was reckless, she got hurt.”

“She’s a cop. It was a good shoot, not to mention she saved your ungrateful ass.”

Barba sighs. “For once I’d like to have a conversation with you that doesn’t involve the point sailing over your head like the extra point.”

“Great chat,” Amaro says, yanking the door open. “Let’s do it again never.”

Barba walks past him and pauses when they’re shoulder to shoulder. “Reckless. Drinking off duty, working too hard, recanted suspect accusations. What’s that you said to me? Your partner, it’s on you.”

“Get out,” Amaro says coldly.

//

“Hey,” Nick calls through the door. “It’s me.”

Olivia swings the door open, her toothbrush stuck in her mouth. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

“Yeah.” She jerks her head and he follows her inside. “I was in the neighborhood.” Olivia goes into the bathroom--he can hear her spit, the faucet turn on and off. He goes into the kitchen, steals a handful of almonds out of the open tin.

“Like hell you were,” Olivia says, coming into the kitchen and shrugging on her jacket. “I know where you live.” 

Nick shrugs. “So I’m worried about you. Sue me.” Olivia reaches for a glass of orange juice on the counter and stops. Nick blinks. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, shaking it off. “Weird deja-vu.” She smiles at him. “I been giving you something extra to be worried about?”

“Not me,” Nick allows. Olivia narrows her eyes at him.

“Cassidy?”

“Barba,” Nick corrects.

Olivia’s eyebrows go up. “Barba?”

Nick shrugs. “Maybe the Tin Man really does have a heart. You ready?”

Olivia grabs her purse. “He’s not that bad.”

Nick shrugs again. “If you say so, Sarge.”

//

“No way,” Nick says fourteen hours later. “No way that’s a defense. Barba’ll get it thrown out.”

“Not necessarily,” Carisi refutes swiftly. “I’ve read of it being allowed in New York Courts.”

“They’ve used it before,” Olivia confirms.

“It’s even worked a few times,” Fin adds.

Amanda shrugs. “Not saying it’s a defense for anything but there does seem to be… something inherent about violence. Could be genetic.”

“His father’s a rapist so he’s a rapist?” Nick snorts, throwing a stack of files down. “Blames the father for his genes, the mother for her anger. Put a needle in his arm and be done with it.” He and Fin fist bump.

“Charming,” Olivia says dryly. She goes into her office.

“Barba’s problem now,” Fin says. He waves a takeout menu at Amanda. “What’s your poison?”

“Pork fried rice for me, something with leafy greens for the Sarge,” Nick calls out, following Olivia.

“Her iron still down?” Fin asks, his phone already to his ear. “I got her covered.”

 

Nick hesitates in the doorway. “This kinda case… gotta hit you hard.”

“All of our cases hit hard,” Olivia evades.

“Naw,” Nick says, “don’t do that. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want, but don’t lie. Not between us.”

Olivia leans back in her chair. “I wonder, of course I do.”

“I do too,” Nick admits, crossing to perch on her desk at her side. “You know how my dad was. How I can be.”

Olivia puts her hand on his leg, reassuring. “You are not your father.”

“You are not yours,” he says firmly. He puts his hand over hers. “Believe me on that, alright?”

“I’m interrupting?” Barba asks from the doorway. His eyes dart down to their hands and then away again.

“Not at all,” Nick says, “I’m just leaving.”

“Actually,” Barba says, “it’s you I need.”

“You can use my office,” Olivia says. She drops a hand on Nick’s shoulder and squeezes. She shuts the door as she leaves.

Amaro slides into Olivia’s chair. “Something I can help you with?”

Barba’s fingers twitch, like he’s counting something. “Judge is allowing the defense.”

“That’s your area,” Amaro says, shrugging. “You couldn’t get it thrown out, you better be able to fight it.”

Barba ignores the dig. “There’s… a rumour. Scuttlebutt around the courthouse. Nothing I would bring up, you understand, if there wasn’t a reasonable chance the jury would buy this… _travesty_ of a defense.”

“Don’t pussyfoot,” Amaro says, sitting up straight. “Shoot straight, Barba.”

“Olivia.” Barba says. “Sergeant Benson. Her father raped her mother, her mother--struggled, let’s say--with addiction, neglect, maybe more. Can you confirm?”

Amaro shoots to his feet and is halfway across the room before Barba holds up his hands, draws him up short. “You are way outta line.”

“You have to understand,” Barba says, “I wouldn’t bring it up, wouldn’t even ask, if--”

“Do not bring it up,” Amaro says flatly. “Do not ask. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Five women dead,” Barba says sharply. “Raped, tortured for hours, brutalized. You saw the pictures, the bodies.”

“Yeah,” Amaro says, “I’m the one who interviewed Jenny Moss before she died in the hospital. You don’t have to explain to me why Gorga should fry.”

“I’ve seen his witness list, I’ve done due diligence. His childhood is… compelling. Juries are fickle, and everyone loves a little pseudoscience. I’m worried. And I don’t worry easily. Olivia could be a powerful counter.” He shakes his head. “I don’t like it either, but I want this guy. We all. Want this guy.”

Amaro gets in Barba’s face, pokes a finger into his tie. He speaks quietly, tightly, using everything he’s got to keep himself contained. “Do not go there. You can’t prove he’s full of shit, that’s not on Liv. That’s _tu maletín,_ you get me?” He leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Amanda jolts. “Nick?”

Nick doesn’t stop. “I need some air.”

//

“Sergeant, can you tell us the identity of your father?”

Olivia blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Objection,” the defense attorney leaps to his feet. “Relevance?”

Barba unbuttons his jacket, the epitome of breezy confidence. “The defense is arguing nature and nurture. Sergeant Benson is uniquely suited to show what a farce has been perpetuated inside this--”

“Thank you, Mr. Barba,” the Judge interrupts. “That’s quite enough. I’ll allow it, but get to your point. Sergeant?”

“My father was Joseph Hollister.”

“And his relationship with your mother?”

Olivia’s jaw works. Barba turns and sees more than one face in the gallery that looks like they’ll be having words with him when this is over. “Happened before I was born. To my knowledge, I have never met my father.”

“To your knowledge?”

“I do not know the nature of the relationship between my mother and my father,” Olivia clarifies.

“What did your mother tell you about your father?”

“Objection,” the defense repeats. “How long are we going to listen to this...very incremental biography?”

“I understand, Your Honor. Permission to treat the witness as hostile?”

“Granted,” the judge says, tone colored with surprise.

“Sergeant Benson, tell the court the nature of the relationship between your mother and your father.”

Olivia’s eyes promise retribution. “My father raped my mother when she was in college.”

“And was he ever caught? Prosecuted?”

“No.”

“And when did you learn this fact? As specific as you can be.”

“Young,” Olivia says. “I’m not sure.”

“Older or younger than ten?”

“Younger,” Olivia admits. 

“And how did you discover the identity of your father?”

“I… must have heard it--”

“You are an officer of the law,” Barba interrupts, “and you are under oath.”

“My mother told me,” Olivia gritted. 

“Under what circumstances did your mother disclose to you, at such a young age?”

Olivia says nothing. “Sergeant,” the Judge warns.

“She was drunk,” Olivia says. 

“And upset?”

“Yes.”

“At you?”

“I can’t speak to why she was upset.”

“And neither should she,” the defense chimes in, “as it would be pure speculation.”

“Witnesses are allowed to speculate when it pertains to their own personal viewpoint, and when it is clear they are testifying speculation, and especially when the defense has opened the door by testifying at length using speculation.”

“Sustained. Speed it up, Mr. Barba.”

“I’ll rephrase. Your mother has--I’m sorry, had--a long history of alcoholism, is that correct?”

“She struggled.”

“Triggered by her brutal rape?”

“Objection. Is it pertinent when the person remembering is a very small child?”

“Withdrawn,” Barba appeases. “To your knowledge, did your mother have a problem with alcohol before the attack?”

“No,” Olivia says. “She was a straight A student, Honor Roll.”

“Between the ages of three and thirteen, how many times did you visit the Emergency Room?”

Olivia shakes her head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Answer the question.”

“I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”

Barba holds up a file. “Sixteen. So, to be clear. Your very existence is as the product of a rape. You knew you were, and your mother had a drinking problem due to the assault. As a result, you suffered from neglect, abuse. A reflection of the same childhood the defendant is claiming caused him to become a violent rapist, a brutal murderer.”

“Objection. Do the People have any actual questions for this witness?”

Barba answers before the Judge can. “How about this one: how many people have you raped and killed, Sergeant Benson?”

“None.”

“Do you hold any special commendations or awards from the New York Police Department?”

“Yes.”

“Several, in fact,” Barba add. “And have any of your own the job shootings or other altercations resulting in serious injuries been ruled excessive force or in poor judgment?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“The Defense requests a recess to prepare for cross-examination,” the lawyer says, sweating slightly. Barba sits. He looks down for a moment, then locks eyes with Olivia, unflinching. “We were not aware the People were going to pursue this avenue of questioning.”

“More like a highway,” the Judge says dryly. “Mr. Barba?”

“The People have no objection.”

//

Olivia is waiting outside the door of the small file room. “Is this our designated argument room?” His joke falls flat, and she follows him in, shutting the door. He faces the wall for another few seconds, unable to turn and face her just now. “Liv--”

“Please,” Olivia says, holding onto control by a thread. “Do not call me that right now.”

“I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t have to. You saw that jury. You know they were wavering.”

“You ambushed me on the stand.”

Barba turns. “And I am sorry. I am. It had to be genuine: your responses, your reticence.”

“Bullshit.” Olivia points at him. “I am good undercover and you know it.”

“You told me to get him. And that circus of a defense, genes and a shitty childhood, and it was going to work.” Barba leans in. “It was going to _work_ , Olivia. He was going to walk. And now he won’t. Because of you. And because of me.”

“My mother didn’t abuse me,” Olivia snaps, “you… slandered her, her memory, my whole _life_.”

“Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I led the jury to believe,” Barba says, “but I didn’t fabricate those hospital records.”

“Cooking burns,” Olivia says, “falls--the only reason there were so many visits is because she was sensitive. Would rush me there for so much as a bruise.”

“Because she sobered up the next day? Was afraid what she’d done when she was drunk? C’mon Olivia, you’re a cop. You know overcompensation when you see it.”

Olivia slams her hand onto the table. “You don’t get to talk to me about this. Not after what you just pulled. You had me declared hostile.”

"Right," Barba notes, "usually, you're all kinds of fuzzy."

The door opens and Amaro comes through like a hurricane. He grabs Barba by the lapels and throws him back into the wall. “I thought we were clear, _Counselor_.”

“Clear?” Olivia holds up a hand, betrayed. “You guys talked about this? Nick?”

“A.D.A Barba?” A court officer sticks his head in, hesitant. “Defense counsel is asking for you.” He retreats quickly, not eager to get into whatever it is they’re locked in.

Barba knocks Amaro away. “They’ll go for a deal. 25 to life, no possibility for parole. It went from a loss to an overwhelming win. It was the right call.” 

When he moves to leave Amaro stops him with a hand to the chest. “You and me? We’re not finished. _Me entiendes_?” Barba leaves.

Nick slams the door behind him. “ _Cabrón._ I told him not to, Liv. I thought he understood.”

“You should have come to me. You’re my partner, you’re supposed to have my back.”

“I do.” Nick steps to her, grabs her shoulders. “I do, you gotta believe that. If I knew he was going to go through with it I would’ve told you.” He quirks the side of his mouth. “Would’ve punched him first, but I would have told you.”

Olivia brings one hand up to his bicep. “Okay, okay. I believe you.”

Nick exhales, sharp. “We’re okay?”

“We’re okay,” Olivia says. She tries a smile. “Give me a lift home?”

“Only if you let me buy you dinner.” Her smile turns slightly more real. She nods.

“Nothing leafy, okay? You guys are worse than Warner.”

“Sorry Liv,” Nick guides her out of the room, his hand on the small of her back. “I got my marching orders, and any lady with that many knives is not one to cross.”

//

Barba brings cupcakes to the precinct. “Cream cheese frosting,” he says, while the squad hones in on him faster than a 10-13. “Courtesy of my mother.” He drops the tray next to the coffee pot. “She bakes when she’s angry.”

“Oh _yeah_ ,” Carisi groans, his mouth already full. “Hey, is your mom single?”

Barba gives him the least impressed look he has given anyone in his entire life. Amanda smacks Carisi upside the head, then looks at Barba. “Liv’s in there.” She gestures to the closed door.

Barba stays standing still. “Obviously. It’s her office, isn’t it?”

“I’d be scared too,” Fin says, looking pretty frosty himself.

“You should definitely take her a cupcake,” Carisi says, who’s apparently either too oblivious to have noticed the tension or whose forgiveness is easily won with sugar and sprinkles. 

“Don’t sweat it, Counselor,” Amaro says, standing and grinning. “I’ll take one in to her. Me ‘n her, we’re good, by the way.”

“Now boys,” Amanda says, exaggerating her accent. “You’re all equally pretty.”

“Not necessary,” Barba says sharply. He snatches up a cupcake and walks into the office, shutting the door behind him.

Olivia doesn’t look up. “I’m a little busy, Counselor.”

“And not with the playful tone,” Barba notes. He drops a coffee on her desk, the little cupcake. “You can trash the coffee, if you’re feeling dramatic, but the cupcake is from my mother. So it’s not of the poisoned tree.”

Olivia tosses her pen aside, sits up. “Homemade baked goods? You must really be feeling in the doghouse.”

“I’d hold myself in contempt if I thought it would continue our fun game, but I think the situation calls for something more… straightforward.”

“I’m listening.”

“Really?” Barba frowns, “I was expecting more resistance. Short recess to prepare for opening statements?”

Olivia picks her pen up again. “Thanks for dropping by, Barba.”

“All right, okay.” Barba sits, sighs. “The job, it’s stressful and we all run a little hot. But I count you as a friend, and I’d hate to lose that. I don’t have many, you know.”

Olivia sighs. “Can’t imagine why.”

“You’ve screwed me over, I’ve screwed you over. Call it a draw? Your second whip already took a run at me.”

Olivia blinks. “Fin hit you?”

“Is that who you think your second is? No, Amaro and I had a chat. Your partner is protective.” He loosens his tie and pulls his collar down, showing the edge of a bruise blooming purple on his pectoral. “Don’t get me wrong, I approve.”

Olivia moves around the desk, leaning close and touching the green and yellow edges. “I’ll talk to him.”

Barba waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t. _Machismo_ is what it is. You could use someone who’s got your back unconditionally.”

“Instead of you?” Olivia pulls his shirt back in order, tugs on his tie once.

“In addition, ideally.” He undoes the knot entirely and flips his collar back up. 

Olivia sits on the edge of her desk and pulls the cupcake out of the wax wrapper, taking a bite. “Unconditional? Lawyers usually shy away from that.”

“Within reason,” Barba allows, “as the fine print clearly stipulates.”

Olivia breaks a chunk off and offers it to him. “First taste is free.”

“Strenuous rejection,” Barba refuses, redoing his tie, “my mother was very clear after I told her what happened. I can look but can’t taste. Wouldn’t even let me lick the spoon.”

Olivia wiggles the cake. “No one has to know.”

“I’m afraid I’m far more scared of the slipper than your gun, Sergeant.” He tilts his head at her, smiling that little boy grin. “Buy you a drink?”

“You think your mother’s cooking and a six dollar coffee buys your way back into my graces?”

“You already ate half the cupcake,” Barba says, “now you’re only allowed to be mad at me two seasons out of the four.”

“How about we try to be better to each other instead? You and me both.”

“A deal I can live with,” Barba agrees. “About that drink?” He flips his collar back down, straightens his tie. All put back together. “Something high shelf, expensive. My treat.”

“I think it’s my turn to pick up the tab.” She grabs her bag.

“Ah,” Barba says, his smile growing as he stands, “the baskets we could weave with these olive branches.” He offers her his arm.

"One step at a time," Olivia says, and links her arm with his.

//

**Author's Note:**

> Amaro and Benson are fucking adorable partners of sunshine, and Barba's chemistry with Olivia is fucking insane. It smolders, man.
> 
> I don't have a beta, and I will fix errors as I become aware of them. As always, I am open to any constructive criticism :)


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